Hogwarts: A Christmas Carol
by tajuki
Summary: C. Dickens' Christmas classic comes to haunt Draco on an ordinary December the twenty-fourth. Merry Christmas everyone!
1. Crabbe And Goyle's Spirits

Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. etc. _A Christmas Carol_ is the literary property of Charles Dickens. No money is being made by this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Some of the original language of Dickens' work is preserved (every noticeable bit of dialogue is the property of Charles Dickens).

Author's Note: This story was written as a collaboration between authors Soupofthedaysara and Tajuki. It was written as a farce directly on the language and concepts in Charles Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_. This story was written in jest and is intended to be taken lightly—just a little Christmas cheer (or lack thereof to ring in the season for all our fellow writers and readers of fanfiction). Any errors and liberties taken with characters is the fault entirely of the authors and we gladly bear responsibility for bastardizing the works of two great British writers. 

_Hogwarts: A Christmas Carol_

Chapter One: Crabbe And Goyle's Ghosts

                **Crabbe and Goyle were dead to begin with. No doubt remains on that point. The Great Hall was packed that day unfortunately. Everyone was there. It was just by luck that the Hufflepuff reached for a silver platter to deflect their badly aimed curses. Bronze, pewter—anything other than sacred silver and the boy would be dead and they would be alive. Malfoy saw it with his own eyes, was close enough to feel the heat of the reflected curses, watched as the bodies thudded to the ground like large sacks of potatoes. He saw. And his eyes never lied. **

                Crabbe and Goyle were as dead as doornails. 

                Still Malfoy never really needed the louts anyway. He didn't really rely on the faithful lackeys. But every now and then he would find himself nod a silent command, expecting one or the other of his bookends to obey mindlessly. It still felt odd to be without them chronically at his side. Always with him, but never really his friends, Malfoy just tolerated their presence, made it useful to him. He cared little for companionship. It meant little to him indeed whether they were here then or no. 

                Oh, but he was a sharp-tongued wit, was Malfoy! A sneering, jeering, smirking, quipping, bullying, venomous little sinner! The weather, neither heat nor cold, affected this stony being. Rain, nor snow nor sleet could get the better of him. Cold could not chill him further, for he had long before reached the extreme. The very furnaces of hell could no more melt his exterior than could his own fiery hate within his heart. He befuddled foul weather because the very essence of foul was fair to him and fair was just as foul. Only sleet and snow and rain and hail boasted one advantage over him—they very often fell from their perches to the lowly earth. And that was something Malfoy simply could not do. 

                There was no stranger ever brave enough to stop him in passing and bid him good day. No one asked him for help, not even the time of day. People went out of their way to avoid him in passing, they would go to great lengths and personal harm to flee his scrutinizing glare. Even the smallest and most naïve of first years knew to duck into an empty classroom or shelter behind a statue when he strolled by. Only the foolish and unlucky presented such targets. Better to risk stigma as a coward than to brave the sharp reproach from his unforgiving and brutal tongue. 

                But what did Malfoy care! It was his greatest pleasure to watch as the sea of humanity parted before him in sheer terror. Let them flee. A ready victim was always to be had despite their best attempts. What they said about him was of little consequence. Nothing penetrated his austere and infallible sense of self-righteous loathing of humanity in general. Malfoy wanted none of their sympathy, gratitude nor care. 

                Once upon a time on just any other day of the calendar, Malfoy walked quickly through the halls, taking as little notice of the excitedly chittering crowds around him. For, if it were just any other day to Malfoy, it was a day to be merry and joyous to those around him. It was indeed Christmas Eve. That pronouncement held little of that joy and merriment for Malfoy. In fact, if anything could ruffle his apathy it was this insufferable cheer everyone seemed to exude in excess. To make matters worse, it was his lot to endure. The letter he held grasped in his hand informed him of his parents' extended stay on the continent and that he was required to remain there. At least it was cold and bleak and foggy outside; the light was beginning to fade. If he had to be miserable, then the rest of humanity should at least suffer a dull, gray Christmas Eve. 

                He crumpled the letter in an angry fist, the slender pianist's fingers well adapted to bruising and bloodying the offending paper. Enraged and incensed by the words of his father, he stalked angrily through the halls of the school, defying any to spread their holiday cheer within a ten foot radius of him. 

                "A Merry Christmas, Draco!" a cheery and chipper voice called out to him from behind. 

                A willing victim; this should be fun, thought Malfoy, turning slowly to make his displeasure known to all. But as he turned to face the offender, his face fell in disappointment. Only one thing could hope to stay his brutal wit: the green and silver tie that designated the wearer as a member of his own house. And even this could only give small reprieve to those who dared to cross him. 

                Blaise Zabini was standing before him with a lopsided and boyish smile plastered across his face. His cheerful voice echoed in Malfoy's head like a train whistle on a hangover. Yet something held him back. Zabini was one of the tolerable few whom his cold and scathing temperament could stand to hold company with. Zabini was one of the lucky handful that could hope to aspire to the echelons of Malfoy's limited esteem. Even for God himself this would be a dizzying height to attain. 

                "Humbug, Zabini!" Malfoy replied with mild scorn, turning to be on his way. 

                Zabini's blithe, rakish laughter was almost addicting. Malfoy could understand why he could worm his way into his tolerance. He had a knack for being likable. "Humbug, Malfoy? What the hell does that mean?" He continued to laugh at the blond boy standing in front of him. It was not something Malfoy was accustomed to. 

                "It is a word that amply sums up my aversion to this season," Malfoy spoke with contempt. 

                Zabini checked his laughter as Malfoy's nasty temperament might be provoked and settled for a charmingly mocking smile, nodding his head to the chronically pessimistic sentiments. "So are you going home for the holidays?"

                "No," he replied blandly, a blank expression masking every emotion or lack thereof. 

                Leaning back against the cold masonry of the ancient wall, Zabini looked his friend over with a discerning glare. After a moment of thought only then did he speak. "Come to my house, Malfoy. There's always room for one more Scrooge at the Zabini's."

                A snort of derisive laughter is the highest reaction the invitation elicited. "Come to your house? I thank you Zabini, but no. But your invitation gladdens my heart." 

                His answer was surprisingly civil for someone of Malfoy's reputation. It took all of Blaise's manicured self composure to remain aloofly blithe in the face of such unexpected courtesy. 

                With an arch of his eyebrow, Malfoy warned Zabini not to jump to conclusions. "That is, I didn't think there would exist a place half so wretched as Hogwarts to spend my holidays. Thank you for presenting me with a more loathsome option, Zabini!" His cold, pale face broke into a harshly amused smile. 

                "Come on, Draco! The common room will be completely deserted. All of the other Slytherins are already gone." 

                Malfoy smiled. "Good, solitude for once."

                Zabini smiled as well and shook his head. "How do you do it?"

                "Do what?" Malfoy circumvented. 

                "This," Blaise persisted, gesturing to the students around him, laughing and enjoying the day surrounded by their friends. "Ignore it! It's intoxicating." Blaise winked at a gaggle of girls exchanging gifts by a suit of armor that happened to be butchering one of his favorite carols. 

                "I see nothing useful in Christmas cheer. It has done nothing for me. Why should I revel like an idiot just because another day expires on my calendar, passing from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth?"

                "Have you ever given it a try?" Blaise smiled widely at his friend and spread his hands out far at his side. "It's glorious! Come have Christmas dinner with me tomorrow. I'm sure even you can find joy then."

                "Zabini, keep Christmas in your own way, and leave me to keep it in mine." 

                "But you don't keep it!" Blaise protested wildly, clearly exasperated by his friend's blasé attitude. 

                "Then leave it to me alone! Much good it may do you. Much good it has done for anyone," Malfoy spat, leveling a cold glare in Zabini's direction. 

                Blaise nodded his affirmation. "I believe it has done me good. Christmas is a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. The only time in the long and weary procession of days I know when people feel freely to give and to receive cheer from their fellow beings. And therefore, Malfoy, although it has never advanced me monetarily or in any other way measurable by your scales, I believe it has done me good, and will do me good. And I say God bless it:" 

                Malfoy stared blankly at his comrade, his cold, expressionless face melting into a taunting smile. He solemnly applauded Zabini, whose boyish glee melted into amused and friendly indignation. "A fine speech, Zabini. You would make a grand politician. But I am not sold."

                Blaise favored Malfoy with another classic smile. "I see I have no sway over you."

                Malfoy returned the smile in a genuinely friendly and civil manner. "None whatsoever." 

                Shoving his hands into his cashmere coat, cheep cashmere, Malfoy noted, he nodded to the blond. "Well, then. I wish you a Merry Christmas!" He waved a leather-clad hand as he retreated through the large doors of the school, bound for the train station. 

                Malfoy shot him a venomous look. "Good Afternoon," was the only reply he deigned to give. 

                "And a Happy New Year," Zabini called over his shoulder. 

Still, all Malfoy could muster was an ill-tempered "Good Afternoon."

He watched for a moment as the other boy continued until he was out of sight. Zabini's step was light and he was truly in good cheer. What a stupid sot! Malfoy thought as he turned back to his scheme of making someone else's day miserable. 

Stumbling with surprise, Malfoy halted abruptly as a bushy head smiling at him with enormous teeth accosted his field of vision. He was in no mood to deal with the mother hen of the two wretched banes of his existence. 

"What do you want, Granger?" Malfoy asked narrowing his eyes and backing away from her slightly. 

"Well, a Merry Christmas to you as well, Malfoy!" she scoffed moving a step closer. 

Malfoy felt as if he had made the greatest of mistakes in not walking away in that moment as he watched with some sort of slow motion terror as Granger pulled out a parchment with the ghastly letters H.E.L.F. written plainly at the top. 

"At this festive season of the year, Malfoy," Granger said, adjusting some god-awful bow of holly and ribbon wrapped in her tangle of hair. "It is more than usually customary that we should make some slight provisions for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time."

Malfoy sneered. "House elves are rarely destitute and never poor. Besides, the ones at this school are paid, aren't they?" he asked. 

Hermione's cheerful grin dissipated somewhat as she said, "Just sign the petition, Malfoy. I'm trying to get them Christmas day off."

"Christmas day off?" Malfoy laughed. 

"That's right. I think they deserve a holiday from slavery…at least for one day." She narrowed her eyes and moved closer. "You of all people should be charitable!" she screamed. 

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked, folding his arms in front of him. 

Hermione huffed. "You have never wanted for anything. It is your station in life to be charitable. Sign the petition." She thrust the paper and a quill out at him. 

Malfoy stepped away from her presumptuous entreaty. "I don't do charity."

"You ought to. It may be the only way you could ever make up for so much evil," Hermione raged. "Sign it, Malfoy and set an example for the rest of the Slytherins."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Now there's something I've always aspired to do, set an example." He neared the Gryffindor menacingly. "I wish to be left alone."

"Well, that's easy enough, Malfoy. You're always alone because no one wants you around and no one needs you," Granger huffed, flipping her holly and ribbon-tied hair over one shoulder and walking away. 

Christmas day off for house elves, he'd never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. He wondered if Granger had considered who would prepare the feast or tend to the fires or do the millions of other things that made this hell-in-castle-form bearable in winter. That was their job, their place in life. Why on earth would you want a holiday from life? It would make them think they were entitled to more and they weren't. They are house elves. 

He shrugged the thought away feeling his anger rise to its boiling point. 

He decided to head for the solitary comfort of the common room. 

Somewhere along the way through the dark and lonely halls beneath the school, he heard the footfalls of someone following him. 

He stopped periodically and listened, craning his neck around to see beyond the last corner he had just turned. 

The footfalls would stop when he stopped. 

When he began to walk again the footfalls would start up only seconds later. 

He let out a calming breath and turned without ceasing his constant stride. The footfalls continued too. When he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with the house elf Dobby. 

"Why the hell are you following me, elf?" Malfoy asked in an angry and impatient tone. 

"Dobby was not following, Dobby was trying to remain out of sight," the house elf explained in a high-pitched and pained tone. 

"Fine. Then why were you trying to remain out of sight?" Malfoy endeavored. 

"A mark of a good elf, sir," Dobby answered, showing that there was no affection lost on either one of them. "I was on my way to tend to the fire in the common room."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "So tend it then." He gave the password which opened the entrance to the Slytherin common room from an ordinary blank space of wall. 

Eying the elf as he performed a number of duties for the comfort of one lone student, Malfoy watched with a scrutinizing gaze, fearing deep within that his patience was about to receive another ill-timed test. 

As if on cue the house elf turned tentatively to the student who scowled back. 

"Excuse Dobby, sir," the elf began. "But, if you would just sign Miss Granger's list, sir, we house elves would be able to have Christmas day off."

"Your point being?" Malfoy drawled with a yawn. 

"Dobby's point being, sir, house elves are meant to serve wizards and we do this everyday of our lives," he paused to stoked a half-burning log. "But, sir, elves have families and friends too. We wish to spend the day with them, as you wish to spend yours with your family."

Malfoy gave a derisive snort. "I will be spending the day as I do every day of the year. Studying." He narrowed his eyes further on the elf and leaned forward. "I will be doing tomorrow the thing that I do three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Because it is a poor excuse for laziness, December the twenty-fifth is."

The elf's eyes widened. He had suspected harshness. After all, he had known Master Malfoy since he was a young child, having grown up himself in serving the pampered wretch of a human. "Christmas day, sir, is for spending in the manner that makes you happy and those around you." He picked up the stoker and leaned it against the masonry of the hearth. "I am happy in my work as are my friends that work alongside me. If we cannot have the day to spend as we please, it pleases us that we can at least spend it with each other. And in making the students and staff that we serve happy, well then we elves could be no more so. We will celebrate in any manner that we can. Happy Christmas to you." With that said, Dobby snapped his fingers and was gone. 

Malfoy grumbled for a moment, having had endured such a blatantly inspirational speech. He took a moment to calm himself into casual unaffectedness. He lay back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. At least he was finally alone. 

Halfheartedly he kicked his feet from the couch and stalked upstairs. 

Now it was a fact that there was nothing particular about the knocker on the door to his room, except that it was very large; also, that Malfoy had seen it, night and morning, during the whole of his residence in that place. And yet Malfoy, having his hand on the doorknob, saw in the knocker, without it going through any immediate process of change, not a knocker, but Crabbe and Goyle's faces. 

Crabbe and Goyle's faces, with a dismal light around them, like two Blast-Ended Skrewts in a dank cellar, not angry but looking at Malfoy in the way that Crabbe and Goyle used to look—only with a wiser knowledge about the eyes that suggested that they knew something that Malfoy did not. (That was a rare look, indeed). 

As Malfoy glanced fixedly at this phenomenon again, it was a knocker. With a shrug and a raise of one eyebrow he proceeded into the room. 

                The door closed with a loud clack that echoed throughout the cavernous room like solemn and somber peels of a mournful church bell. The room was dark and silent and cozy. A candle was the sole light source, but it burned amply on the bedside table, sufficiently lighting the room and chasing the shadows into the very depths of the corners until the master blew out the flame, allowing them to rush forward. Quickly, Malfoy exchanged his school robes, woolen jumper and trousers for his pajamas and dressing gown. 

                Never one to admit a shortcoming, Malfoy denied the fact that he strode over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker out of fear. For fear had not led him to make a thorough inspection of the bedchamber, under the bed, behind the sofa, in the wardrobes. He had not been seeking to secure the room from the terrors that he had or had not encountered on his way inside. No, the motivation was prudence. Someone may very well be playing a trick on him. And hell if he let anyone gain the upper hand—not even a pair of ghosts. Finally he was satisfied in his search, locking the door securely and discarding the poker by the fire, slumping wearily onto the sofa. 

                Resting his head on a squashy pillow, Malfoy's eyes rested for some inexplicable reason on a bell occupying the table of another roommate off on holiday. The bell was a mere silver trinket with no understandable use. No one came when the owner rang, so where was the point in keeping the useless thing around? With the oddest feeling of dread and apprehension, Malfoy watched as the bell began to ring itself as if in arrogant protest to his thoughts. The high tinkling of the bell only grew louder and louder, more impatient as the tense seconds wore on until another sound was added to its noise. It seemed to Malfoy's ears as if someone were dragging something, very heavy and metallic by the sound of it. A chain. The noise seemed to echo throughout the chamber, resonating from above and below in a confusing profusion of sound that it was impossible for Malfoy to tell where the noise originated from. 

                Then with a cold chill, he realized that the owners of those chains stood but a few feet directly behind him. The noise had stopped abruptly as if the bearers of the burden were awaiting his notice. Reluctantly and filled with dread, he turned. 

                Standing in front of him were the specters. The very same ghosts he saw, yet pretended not to have seen, loomed in front of him now. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had changed as little in death as they had in life. Still the same hulking, apish louts, the only difference that was readily noticeable besides the hefty ton of shackles were the weary expressions, calling up images of people that held portentous news within their grasp, yet feared to speak of it. He felt inclined to question the macabre specters and to flee from them in the same instant. 

                Malfoy steeled himself up to the point where he stood in front of the two specters. Though he looked the phantoms through and through and saw them standing before him— he felt the chilling influence of their death-cold eyes. 

                "What is this?" said Malfoy, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"

They looked at each other as if debating a point known only to the specters. The phantom of Crabbe dumbly prodded that of Goyle. There was no doubt about it. Malfoy was staring at the ghostly images of his friends in life. 

"There's a lot to show you," Goyle's image spoke finally. 

"If you would listen, Malfoy. But you're stubborn. And you won't," Crabbe answered dumbly. 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in a scrutinizing manner. "Who are you?"

"Ask us who we were," Goyle answered cryptically. 

Malfoy scoffed. "Fine then, who were you?"

Goyle exchanged another look with Crabbe. "In life we were as close to you as friends."

"I had none. Never," Malfoy answered, suddenly struck. 

The outlines of the two phantoms flickered and wavered slightly. 

The silence was chillingly cold. 

"You don't believe in us?" Goyle asked in a low gruff tone. 

"I don't."

"What evidence do you need of our reality beyond that of your own senses?" Crabbe asked in a solemn, quiet voice.

Malfoy lifted his chin proudly. "I don't know," his voice wavered as he spoke. 

"In life you never doubted your senses."

"Because at this moment a little thing could affect them. A slight weariness might make them cheat. Why are you here?" Malfoy stood erect, drawing himself to his full height. He paused and leveled and incredulous stare. "Is this the part were I say, 'There is more of gravy than of grave about you"? Nice try. I know that one."

"It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. I cannot tell you all I would. A very little more is permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond this school -- mark me! -- in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our misdeeds; and weary journeys lie before us!" Crabbe answered in an ever sorrowful tone. 

Malfoy found his voice after some moments in silence. "Two years dead and wandering all this time? Do you travel fast?"

"On the wings of the wind," Goyle answered sounding evermore ridiculous with his large language. 

"You might have gotten to a great many lands in two year's time," Malfoy answered mockingly. 

"O Malfoy, you fool! not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet I was like this fool; I once was like this fool!" 

"Don't talk to me of Christian spirits!" Malfoy demanded in a contempt that voiced his anger and impatience. "But you two were always good at your craft, in making little of others." Malfoy faltered, beginning to now apply this to himself. 

"My craft!" Goyle shouted, incensed. The walls shook with his anger. He calmed as Crabbe placed one translucent hand on his shoulder. 

"Hear me! Our time is nearly gone," Crabbe said. 

"I won't promise a thing," Malfoy said with arms crossed stubbornly before him. 

"We are here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping our fate. A chance and hope that we could give you if you but just listen, Draco." Crabbe waited for a response. 

From Malfoy, none but the slightest nod came. 

"You will be haunted by three spirits," Goyle said finally. 

"I've already been haunted by two. Can you send the next chap in then so I can reject this divine intervention and get some sleep?" Malfoy asked in a sarcastic tone. Laughing, he continued, "Thanks but no thanks, _mates."_

"Well, you will be haunted by three more spirits," Crabbe clarified.

"Other than us," Goyle added. "If you don't listen to these spirits," he pleaded, "You will be condemned to the fate that we share."

Malfoy gave a derisive and unconvinced nod. 

"Expect the first at the stroke of one," Goyle said. 

With a fading of light and texture, the phantoms of Crabbe and Goyle diminished into nothing but a cold and empty room. 

Malfoy raised his eyebrows and laughed, "At the stroke of one…right."


	2. The First Of Three Spirits

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Warner Bros., Raincoast Books, Scholastic Books, etc. Charles Dickens owns _A Christmas Carol_. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All mistakes and deviations from canon are entirely the fault of the authors. 

_Hogwarts: A Christmas Carol_

Chapter Two: The First Of The Three Spirits

                When Malfoy awoke, it was black. He could not remember falling asleep, but recalled the oddest of dreams. Blinking, he tried in vain to dispel the blackness around him, the night so thick that he could not discern the window from the surrounding wall. Stumbling, he walked from the sofa to his familiar bed, weaving between dark objects. Gratefully he fell into the soft sheets and pillows and pulled the curtains closed around him, still trying to shake the images that danced behind his eyes. 

                Then he heard the chime of the bells on the tower as well as the tiny tinkle from the clock by the bed. The great bellow from a clapper resonating on iron and the small hammer on brass all intoned the same message. ONE.

                Holding his breath, he waited as the reverberating sound died in his ears. When it finally dissipated he laughed. It _had_ been just a dream.

                There was in that instant a bright and blinding flash in the room, changing the deep black into a crackling white. The sheltering curtains were drawn back and he saw a figure standing in the middle of his room. It was a girl, Malfoy noted in startled astonishment. A woolen cap shoved down over her head barely hid the brown curls that stood out from her stern and impatient face. His astonishment turned immediately into extreme loathing. 

                "Granger! What the hell are you doing in my room!" he bellowed angrily, pulling the coverlet up to his chin. He then realized with a sinking feeling that he still dreamed. But pinching himself left only red welts upon his skin and no relief from his waking nightmare. 

                The girl merely stood where she was and tapped her foot on the floor, glaring with mild disdain. 

                "I asked you a question, Mudblood!" the boy warned dangerously. 

                The girl tossed her hair and gave her opponent a superior look. "That's exactly why they came, you know."

                Malfoy furrowed his brow in confusion. "What are you on about, Granger? And what the hell are you doing here?" he asked again. 

                "I was referring to your visitors tonight," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

                "You know about that?" he asked, flabbergasted. He quickly recovered his composure. "I mean, that dream?" 

                She shook her head and scoffed. "That was no dream, Malfoy." 

                "You mean," he stammered. 

                She nodded.

                "They were spirits?"

                She nodded again, smiling with smug satisfaction. 

                "Are...are you…"

                "I am."

                Malfoy's expression was blank. It was a moment before his calm composure melted and he dissolved into fits of laughter. "You're the spirit who was foretold to me? You're not even dead. How can you be a spirit?" More laughter followed the question. "If this is some trick, it's not very good, is it? I mean, I would expect more from you. Honestly?" he chided, "It feels rather…"

                "Frightening?" the girl opined with a hopeful look on her face. 

                "Plagiarized," he corrected with biting disdain. 

                The girl stopped smiling instantly and leveled a withering glare on the boy. 

                "No, really—who and what are you? And why the hell are you in my room?"

                "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

                "Well, then. Aren't you a bit out of date?" He continued to laugh, obviously amused by his own wit. 

                "I am the keeper of Christmases forgotten and cherished. The warden of memories."

                The laughter had not abated. "Whose?"

                "Yours." 

                The answer sobered him immediately. He jumped up from the warm bed, the covers falling away and he took a menacing step toward the mysterious girl, the likeness of his scholarly rival. "What could you possibly know? Who set you up to this?"

                "Relax. I'm not here to blackmail you." She reached into her clean, white robe, her eyes still leveled on the boy. She pulled out a thick notebook and opened the worn cover.

                "Then what is your business here?" he asked impatiently. 

                "Your welfare." Her fingers filed through the pages expertly. 

                "My welfare?" He asked, leaning closer to the voluminous book, trying to catch a peek. "Why on earth would _you _of all people concern yourself with my welfare?" he spat, uneasy that Granger was standing in front of him spouting such sentiments. 

                "Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy," she spoke, setting the boy at ease. "It is my task to show you your past. The things you will see with me are but mere shadows of what has been. They will have no consciousness of us." She stopped on an unknown page with a pleased look. 

                Malfoy stood by the bed, his face a mask of unabashed disbelief. "What do you have in that book, anyway Granger?" He extricated himself from the warm and comforting sheets and stood on the icy floor. 

                "Your memories," she said with a satisfied expression, pleased with herself. "I've catalogued your past. I have everything here," she informed him, "every deed, and every _mis_deed."

                "My, my," he said, affecting unconcern, "but you are a thorough student."

She ignored him, snapping the book shut with a crack and beckoned him with a pale hand. "Come, we have much to see."

                He looked down at his feet, then back at the girl, holding his hands out to his side. A smirk lined his face maliciously. "I'm not about to go parading around my past in pajamas."

                "No one will see you."

                "But it's freezing out there." 

                "You won't feel it." The girl wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and beckoned him again.

                She walked over to the boy and grasped his wrist firmly. "Honestly, Malfoy. I always thought you were a satin kind of guy," she scoffed, surveying his flannel, monogrammed ensemble. 

                "Well, sorry to ruin you dreams of me, Granger, but if you would just release me, I might be inclined to forget about this altogether."

                Tugging his arm and urging him on, he struggled as she pulled him to the window. "I can't. There are things you must know." With a wave of her hand the window sprang open of its own volition. Malfoy's eyes grew wider as he realized where the strange apparition was leading him. 

                "Where are we going? Granger, I can't fly!"

                But before the words were spoken, they were skimming frosted forests of fir trees, heading for an ever brighter horizon. "Is that it?" He pointed at the bright lights growing bigger and more luminous. 

                "What?" she asked blandly.

                "It!"

                "The Past? That it is."

                The forest cleared to rolling hills and an imposing stone structure set on a citadel by a gleaming lake. 

                "We've gone in a circle, you daft Mudblood! That's Hogwarts down there!" Malfoy yelled as they descended. 

                "It is and it isn't." She shook her head, her hair spangled with a million snowflakes. "It is the same school, but it is five years in the past." 

                The girl landed softly in the snow and Malfoy fell at her side, floundering in the fluffy and cold substance. 

                "This is our first year, Granger! What's so important that I learn here?" he said, brushing the white crystals from his hair and face. 

                "It is _your_ first year, Malfoy. Not mine." 

                The boy turned to his companion and snorted derisively. "Are you still trying to keep up that sad charade, Granger? Are you honestly trying to convince me that you are not that insufferable know-it-all that I loathe almost as much as Weasley and Potter?"

                "I am the same, and yet I am not." She shoved her fists impatiently into her hips. "I can remember nearly nine-hundred years." 

                "What?" Malfoy blinked in astonishment. 

                "No more questions. Follow me," the girl commanded, taking no more heed of the angry boy trailing through the snow behind her. 

                They stepped out of the snow and into the warmth of the Great Hall of the castle that was Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry. Real and tangible figures passed busily by, oblivious to the presence of either the girl or pajama-clad boy. Malfoy reached out to a passing Hufflepuff and watched as his hand passed right through the boy. "No kidding!" he exclaimed. 

                "I told you that they can't see you or feel you." 

                "Oh ho, there's a handsome little devil," Malfoy whistled and pointed in the direction of a smaller version of himself, blond hair as always neatly in place. He was flanked by the usual crowd. Crabbe and Goyle stood at his side, sneering in the same manner as their idol, however less elegantly. Their similar, malicious glares were fixed on a target, awaiting only the opportunity. Malfoy watched as the evilly amused glare of his small counterpart followed a girl with bushy brown hair and large front teeth. Malfoy nudged the ghostly girl next to him, jabbing her sharply with his elbow. "Hey, look! There's you!"

                "I know!" she replied through gritted teeth. "You honestly don't remember this!"

                Malfoy shook his head. "No, I don't." He leaned closer to the seething girl next to him, his arms folded. "What am I supposed to remember?" 

                "I can't believe you don't remember! I remember like it was yesterday," she scoffed, tossing her hair in an irritated manner. She looked up, shock written all over her face. "I mean, she remembers like it was yesterday." Her recovery was less graceful than she would have liked. 

                The small, first year Hermione had just stepped out of the Great Hall, dragging an apparently heavy trunk behind her. It was the first day of the holidays and dozens of other students were headed for the train station as well. 

                "Oy, Granger," the eleven-year old Malfoy shouted to the luggage-laden Granger, who looked up with a startled glance. "Let me help you with that." 

                "No, no thank you, Malfoy, I've got it, it's no trouble at all," the young Granger stammered, pulling her belongings closer behind her and plunging through the crowds of students with renewed fervor. 

                With one swift motion of his wand, the eleven-year-old Malfoy had the trunk suspended in the air a few seconds before it burst open, scattering books and clothing all over the entrance hall. Hermione stood red-faced as the hall erupted into torrents of laughter and the chorus was lead by Malfoy and his cronies, almost crying with mirth. 

                Next to the ghostly apparition of Hermione, Malfoy could barely contain a giggle, which the girl rewarded with a shrewd glare. "That was not funny!" she scolded harshly. "I…I mean, she was teased for weeks about the kitty pajamas." 

                "You're right, that was not my best work, she didn't even cry!" Malfoy appraised. 

                She threw her hands up in the air. "That's not the point, Malfoy! Don't you feel horrible about making people miserable? Do you know what it feels like to be laughed at?"

                "No, actually." He frowned at her before he resumed examining his nails. 

                "Right then," she said, pursing her lips and grabbing him by the wrist once more. "Come with me."

                "Where are we going now?" he whined, trailing her. 

                "You'll see," she said in a haughty voice. 

                There was another blinding flash. Malfoy blinked and scoffed as he noticed they stood in exactly the same place they were before, only the entrance hall was more festively and cheerily decorated. Students were streaming in and out of the Great Hall wearing their finest dress robes. 

                "Where are we, Granger?" Malfoy asked. 

                "Hogwarts," she replied. 

                "I know that! Where in _time are we?" he spoke with emphasis. _

                "This is Christmas, two years ago."

                "Our fourth year," he intoned blandly. 

                "You're getting good at this, Malfoy," she scoffed sarcastically. 

                "I can still make you cry," he threatened tensely. "So why are we here?"

                The girl simply pointed. 

                The large wooden doors of the Great Hall suddenly burst open and a pink-robed girl rushed forth passed the two observers in the greatest haste possible. She was crying. 

                "Was that?" Malfoy asked, his eyes wide with astonishment.

                The girl nodded mysteriously. "What did you say to her that night, Malfoy?"

                He shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing much—certainly not anything that warranted that excessive show of drama." 

                She stared at the boy who appeared to feel a bit of remorse. Leading him out onto the steps, they could hear the girl crying. "Had you realized you hurt her that much?"

                Malfoy frowned. "Pansy was always a bit touchy, Granger. It may not have even been my fault."

                She looked over her shoulders and spotted the fourteen-year-old Malfoy standing in the doorway with his lackeys laughing maliciously. "Not your fault, eh?"

                Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets and looked back to Pansy, huddled in a tangle of pink silk, shivering and crying. "Well, is there anything I can say? Anything I can do?"

                She shook her head sympathetically. "Nothing now. You can't change the past." 

                He stared at the girl blankly. "I never meant to make her cry." Then, as if the icy wind had altered him somehow, he stood a little more rigidly as he spoke. "But I can't change."

                The girl shook her head. "We have watched every good quality in you slip away, replaced by meanness and spite. I'm not sure there is anything in you worth saving. You certainly haven't proven that you even want saving. Just tell me you don't like what you see, that you want to change this," she said, pointing to the girl sobbing on an icy bench in the snow. 

                Malfoy frowned. "Please, can we go now. I don't want to see anymore." 

                The spirit seemed not to hear him and stood, staring at him in harsh accusation. He was conscious of a struggle to make the spirit see reason and release him from his burden of guilt. He felt the crushing weight of drowsiness pulling him down into a deep and thoughtless sleep. Before long he was conscious of neither the absence of the spirit nor his comfortable and familiar bed. 


	3. The Second Of Three Spirits

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Warner Bros., Raincoast Books, Scholastic Books, etc. Charles Dickens owns _A Christmas Carol.  No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. _

Chapter Three

The Second of the Three Spirits

                Malfoy awoke in his own bed. There was no doubt about that. The hangings were all his, the coverlet. A complete sense of gratefulness washed over him as he moved his hands over the surface of them. It was a reassurance that the nightmare with Ganger had been just that, a dream. 

                Just to be sure Malfoy peeked through a crack in the curtains around his bed. Nothing beyond the bed and its hangings was how he remembered them. They had undergone a most unusual transformation. The ceiling and walls were lined with green—not the traditional Slytherin green, but a living green that seemed to transform his dorm room into a veritable forest, so infused with vegetation it was. There seemed to be a glittering quality about the waxy holly, mistletoe and ivy leaves as they reflected back the light. 

                As if sensing the presence of Malfoy as he emerged from the curtains to have a look, the fire blazed from the grate in a mighty welcome. Malfoy blinked and rubbed his eyes. 

                He couldn't believe that this phantasm, this charade, this nightmare had manifested itself again. He should have guessed whom he would meet next. 

                The tall boy in deep green robes and a white scarf turned to him with a somber look. 

                Malfoy arose immediately, more affronted by this presence then he had been by Granger's. 

                The spirit, for he was no more than such an apparition, leveled an impatient and scornful eye upon Malfoy. This enraged him. That was not a look that a Weasley was accustomed to giving anyone. That was _his_ look. No one knew the amount of grace and loathing that that particular look consumed. He was about to voice this inconsistency when the spirit spoke. 

                "Nice pajamas, Malfoy," it said uninterestedly. 

                "Your girlfriend thought so as well," Malfoy shot back as naturally as if it were a reflex. If he was expecting the apparition to reply, it didn't. The boy merely blinked. 

                Malfoy bit his lip. For a moment or two he debated over whether or not it would be profitable to remain silent and let this idiot lead him to God knows where, or if he should push for some information. He decided to pursue the latter course of action.

                "What's with all the green, Weasley?"

                The boy did not speak, did not look away from Malfoy.

                "Yeah, okay. I'll play along. What are you going to show me? Your poor destitute family where there's one lonely chicken leg to split between the fourteen of you and you sister is suffering from some tragic illness, but that's okay because she has some pearls of Christmas wisdom to impart to all of us before her short time on this earth is over?" 

                The spirit merely blinked again and then said tonelessly, "My sister is fine…and there's nine of us, not fourteen, Malfoy."

                "So why are you the spirit that is haunting me?" Malfoy asked, changing tack before he angered the spirit further. "Granger already stopped by and showed me some pointless things from the past. But you're not dead and neither is she…are you?" 

                "No, we are not dead and may not die for quite a while yet. But in spirit we have been assigned to—," the spirit began to explain. 

                "Yeah, yeah, my welfare, I know," Malfoy finished with a wave of his hand. 

                "But say one more thing about my family and my friends and I shall leave you here to negotiate your own end. The decision is yours, Malfoy," the spirit intoned with dark blue eyes that showed that he was less than amused. 

                "All right, Weasley," Malfoy spat, "what is your angle? How will you try to save my soul?"

                "I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Touch my robe and I will show you the things that are," the spirit said, holding out a ghostly white hand where Malfoy grabbed reluctantly at one sleeve.  

                The room and its contents all vanished instantly. Malfoy found himself standing next to Weasley. They were both facing a still-life framed in gold. Malfoy looked down the corridor and up. There was no one around. Neither the painting nor the surroundings found themselves familiar with Malfoy, but Weasley seemed to know of this place and its secrets. 

                The spirit reached through the painting and walked into the wall. Malfoy followed soon after him. 

                "Where are we?" Malfoy asked. 

                "We are in the kitchens of the school," the spirit explained pointing to the droves of busy house elves and piles of food they were preparing for the feast that evening. 

                Even as Malfoy scanned the room, his eyes rested on a familiar figure. It was Dobby, the elf he had spoken to the previous evening. He was working beside two other elves who diligently stirred a steaming pot of something. 

                "Are they working on Christmas?" Malfoy asked. 

                The spirit blinked. "Yes, of course. The meal has to be prepared. Who do you think does the Christmas cooking?"

                "The Hufflepuffs." Malfoy returned his gaze back to the toiling elves. "I thought Granger was working to get them the day off?" he asked in a casual tone. 

                The spirit breathed in a heavy sigh behind him. "The petition that she had asked you to sign was a conditional one," he explained. 

                "Conditional?" Malfoy asked. 

                "Conditional. Only if it got a signature from everyone spending Christmas at the school, would the house elves have the day off."

                "How many people didn't sign?" Malfoy asked in an uncharacteristically dejected tone. His eyes wandered from the stern and accusing features of ersatz companion, Weasley, to a pathetic little creature that had fallen from her stool by the fire. In a crash of bottles and intermittent hiccups, the elf in her dirty shirt and matching skirt sat up from her heaps of butterbeer bottles and began to sob. 

                "One person," the spirit answered.  

                Malfoy looked at the spirit who leveled a harshly accusing glare at him and then back to the wretched elf on the floor. 

                At present Dobby came rushing from his duties to tend to the fallen and depressed elf. 

                "Winky," Dobby said in a chiding voice. "Winky, please be patient. Dobby and the others have to get the feast in order for the good students and staff. As soon as Dobby has done that, Dobby will take you to see your master, Dobby promises."

                "Winky misses her master," the sobbing elf hiccupped. "Winky wants to see her family. Winky misses Christmas with them."

                "Winky mustn't cry. Dobby is sorry for Winky and is working as fast as Dobby can. Then we can sneak out and see Winky's family for Christmas, Dobby promises."

                Winky blinked and seemed to cheer up. She stood and wobbled a bit. Straightening her wretchedly filthy clothing she smiled. "Winky will help. Feast will be done faster if Winky helps," the elf said. 

                She rushed back to the stove where Dobby had been basting two turkeys. 

                "Who are her master and her family that she misses so much?" Malfoy asked, staring after the elf. 

                 The spirit shook his head solemnly. "They are but graves now. In life they had been Mr. Crouch, his wife and their son."

                Malfoy opened his mouth to say something and to his great surprise saw the room fade from view to be replaced firstly with the sound of laughter and then the sight of a festive party underway. There was the familiar sight of his friend and school mate, Blaise Zabini. 

                "Ah, now this is a better way to employ yourself, spirit. We can spy on our own school friends and enemies. No more of that, 'I miss my dead family' crap. That was getting on my nerves," Malfoy said with a smile. 

                The spirit turned to look at him. "Are you sure you would rather visit this scene?"

                "Yes, I know these people well. They are my friends. There's Zabini right there and there," he pointed, "There's Pansy," his expression fell a bit as he said the name. "And there, over there is Millicent and Sally Anne with Flint."

                "He said 'Humbug'. I swear he did!" he heard Blaise's laughter coming from the middle of the room, infusing the other guest with the same joviality. 

                Malfoy listened at this and said nothing. 

                "More shame for him," Pansy answered from across the room raising a Champaign glass in her hand. 

                Malfoy wheeled around as he heard the spirit laughing. 

                "Your friends, Malfoy?" Weasley asked with a raise of his eyebrow and a sneer of his own. 

                Malfoy returned his gaze to Pansy in earnest. She was very pretty this evening in a burgundy that would never have suited anyone else with her hair color. The fact that she seemed truly happy (a look she had never worn when he was anywhere to be seen) seemed to enhance her charms. Her smile was full and unassuming. She was laughing genuinely, laughing at him. 

                He blinked. He felt an unfamiliar sinking in his heart. He always knew that there were people that who would take pleasure in mocking him. He had always assumed that they were all of a different house, a different creed from him. Not his friends, his comrades, the ones who always affected a likeness to him whenever he was nearby. Never had he dreamed that they would unite in mocking him behind his back. That was the job of his enemies, Weasley and Granger and Potter and all of the other Gryffindors. 

                "I say if he is too good for the season and for his friends then he can rot away in that lonely dungeon room for all I care," Zabini said, raising his glass in response to Pansy's. 

                Malfoy felt the heat of rage in his cheek. There was a look exchanged between the two. And while Malfoy could never dream to still hold a claim to Pansy he was infuriated at the thought of Blaise moving in on what once was his. He had always labored under the misapprehension that it was anyone's privilege, their good fortune, to be considered among his friends. Now he realized that they laughed at his deceitful and malicious behavior behind his back. 

                And didn't he deserve it? Had he been pleasant to anyone? Hadn't he given them enough ridiculous reason to poke fun in his absence? 

                He looked to the spirit next to him who was watching the scene with less than concealed interest. At least, he thought, his true enemies never waited till his back was turned. Friends, he was fast learning, were far worse. 

                "For all anyone cares," Flint joined in with a raise of his glass as the room roared with laughter around them. 

                In utter astonishment and anger he watched Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson walk away from them and out on to the terrace where Malfoy could no longer see them. 

                He made to follow but was halted by one cold hand. The spirit shook his head and turned to leave. Malfoy reluctantly followed. 

                He turned back to the scene of his friends once more and found them all still laughing heartily at their friend, the miserable Draco Malfoy. 

                When he turned from the scene again the spirit was gone and he was alone. Where his field of vision ended, a thick sea of fog swirled before him. It parted only to allow a lone figure to pass through. The figure was cloaked in a long black cape and its face was masked by a hood.


	4. The Last Of The Three Spirits

Disclaimer: All characters and ideas associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Warner Bros., Raincoast Books, Scholastic Books, etc. Charles Dickens owns _A Christmas Carol_.  No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. 

Chapter Four

The Last of the Three Spirits

                Young Master Malfoy watched the approach of the hooded figure with a growing trepidation. However as it neared, his dread began to sink from his heart to his feet, soaking into the ground below him and leaving him completely. It was not a dementor as he had thought for the icy tentacles of fear had not gripped him as he watched its advance. For half a moment, Draco was tempted to believe this specter human enough, and black enough, indeed. He searched for signs of familiarity in the figure, curious to see who among the Death Eaters had been sent into his dreams to convert his mortal soul. But with each step the figure grew nearer and Draco realized that the spirit was no taller than he. Growing impatient, he sucked in a breath and drew courage enough to speak to it. 

                "You there," he said with more confidence than he felt, "Who are you?"

                The spirit said nothing and Draco wondered if it had even noticed him standing in its direct path. He waved his hands, minutely at first and then with wider and more frantic motions. He debated bobbing his head and flapping his arms, clucking like a chicken. Instead he fell motionless, dumbfounded. He watched the mysterious figure continue past him. Turning around to follow the hooded specter with his glare, he heard the faint crunch of snow beneath his feet. He sucked in a startled breath as he saw the spirit approach a stone wall, frosted with an icy sheen. He blinked, not believing his eyes—he stood before his school, outside, in the cold wearing only his pajamas. He felt like a fool.

                His curiosity turned to indignation. He planted his slippered feet firmly in the snow and stuck his elbows out sharply, his fists on his hips and a scowl on his face. "Answer me!"

                The spirit moved one hand alone, a pale finger emerging from the folds of his cloak, beckoning the boy to come forward. Draco ground his teeth with anger, the creak of the friction sounding in his ears. He felt his face become hot even though he fought not to shiver. The figure turned its masked face away from the boy and toward a darkened window. 

                The crunch of impatient footsteps in fresh snow was the only sound in the still night. Draco marched up behind the black-clad ghost and was about to shout a demand to know its identity when, to his surprise, the specter raised its pale hand once more, as if in silent, omniscient anticipation of the boy's reaction. The slim fingers pointed to the panes of the darkened window and from the silent expanses beyond the frosty glass, Draco suddenly heard voices. He removed his angry glare from the cloaked figure and tried to peer through the darkness. 

                The light of a candle seemed to float just beyond the glass now that he looked, and the room was not empty he now saw. The quiet voices grew and the identities were unmistakable to his ears. Marcus Flint was speaking in conspiratorial tones to Sally Anne Perks and Millicent Bullistrode. At first he could not hear what he was saying but as he pressed in closer, it became clear. Marcus held something out for his classmates to see and it must have been somewhat impressive by the reflected surprise in the girls' faces. 

                "Are you sure it was his?" the taller of the two girls remarked with skepticism. Millicent always had reminded him of an American footballer. And now with her brow shoved down over her little squinty eyes in disbelief, he was left with no reserves as to his impression. 

                The smaller girl reached out with her tiny, spidery fingers toward whatever Marcus held out to them. She flinched slightly as Marcus snatched the object away with leery caution. "And you said it was from his parents?" Her eyes widened in wonder. "He must have treasured it."

                Marcus shook his large, dark and rather apish head slowly. "I doubt he ever treasured anything. Huh," he tutted with an extra effort at irony, "probably just another thing to him." He shrugged his shoulders and released his tight hold on whatever he held. "Well," he said after a long pause, "what'll it be? I've got offers from at least five others…" He raised his eyebrows expectantly. 

                Sally Anne bit her lip and glanced up at Millicent, unsure. Millicent only nodded before turning out her pockets, revealing a Galleon and three Fillibusters Fireworks. Sally Anne reluctantly dropped three Sickles into Millicent's open palm. 

                "Pleasure doing business with you ladies," Marcus said with little pleasure in his voice. Millicent emptied her palm into Marcus' and quickly snatched at a golden chain he dangled before them. "Better luck with it than he had. Lot of good it did him." He pocketed his newly acquired treasure and slunk back into the shadows of the quiet room. 

                Sally Anne and Millicent stared, wide-eyed and silent. "Oooo." Sally Anne spoke in hushed tones as if she was afraid to be overheard. "I've never owned something that belonged to a dead person."

                Millicent dangled the chain over the candle and smiled. The tooth of a dragon hung limply over the warm and solitary glow. 

                "Hey!" Draco shouted, banging his hand flat against the window. The girls did not flinch. "That's mine!"

                He turned in rage to the cloaked spirit. "What the hell is this?" He waited. 

                The hood turned to him with recognition of a question, but still no voice issued forth. 

                "Answer me!" Draco said, forcefully shoving the spirit's shoulder. 

                The pale hand reached up to its hood and slowly pulled it back. "Damn it, Malfoy!" The likeness of the worst of his trio of rivals was revealed as the hood fell over his shoulders. Black hair and glasses, very green eyes behind them. It was sodding Harry Potter. "You're ruining the effect!" he continued despairingly. 

                "This is bollocks! You're making all of this up." Malfoy sucked in a breath to fuel his rage. "Flint is my friend. He wouldn't hock my things. And no one in Slytherin House would dare to buy them even if he had gotten hold of them."

                To Draco's continued annoyance, Harry didn't argue. He shrugged and turned, walking away from the school. 

                Malfoy stood in the snow a moment longer looking after the image of his rival that was growing smaller as more distance was put between them. He looked back at the frosted wall of the castle and then at the figure leaving him here in the snow. He sighed.  "I hate Christmas!" he affirmed, shuffling through the snow to catch the spirit. 

                He knew his footfalls in the snow could not have gone undetected, but the spirit neither slowed its pace to allow him to catch up, or turn to acknowledge his coming.

                "What else have you got to show me, Potter?" Draco spat vehemently. 

                The boy continued to look straight ahead at the growing blackness of the night just before the break of dawn and slowly reached up to cover his head once more with the hood. Draco thought he would pull more of that silent as the grave crap, but to his surprise his companion spoke. 

                Harry said in tones that communicated no feeling, "You don't have to come along. I could take you back to your dorm room and we can leave it at that."

                Draco opened his mouth to protest. 

                Without turning to see this, Harry interrupted his comments. "You're not going to like what I have to show you. I don't mind if you want to turn back."

                Narrowing his eyes and favoring the spirit with an incredulous glare, Draco thought: reverse psychology. "No," he said. "I'm not afraid of anything you want to show me."

                The hooded figure nodded once and the scene of the school shifted abruptly to a bleak field with a sloping hill. Gravestones and sad trees were all that dotted the sorrowful hillside. Suddenly the figure stopped at a freshly dug grave, gaping and awaiting its inhabitant. Draco only saw the hole as he almost walked into it. He stumbled backwards, a bit off balance and fell heavily backwards. 

                The spirit turned to favor him with an expressionless gaze. 

                "You could have warned me about that!" Draco spat, still sitting on the cold soil of the fresh grave. 

                "I am warning you about it," Harry said matter-of-factly. 

                "Wh—," Draco started, following the finger that the spirit extended to indicate a lone figure traversing the far side of the lonely cemetery. "Who is that?" he said, altering his first question without his eyes leaving the small shadow of a visitor that came to stand beside an equally small stone.

                "You know him," the spirit answered. "He keeps your rooms warm, makes your bed, prepares your meals. It's a thankless job, but someone's got to do it, right?"

                "Who is he visiting?" Draco said, suffering a chill at the realization that he knew that answer too. 

                "His friend," Harry's voice said without feeling. "I think you met her earlier in the night."

                Draco felt a sinking. It startled him and then faded, leaving embarrassment and anger in its place. "What the hell do I care about house elves? Are you going to show me something pertinent to _my_ future? You are the ghost of Christmas future, aren't you?"

                The hood turned on him and he felt cold eyes peering at him, but he could not see a human feature at all. Only darkness pervaded the hood and cloak and Draco got the feeling that the cloak and hood were the only tangible things about this frightening spirit of fog and cold. 

                Again a draped arm was extended and the spirit indicated the stone above the fresh grave at the foot of which Draco sat. 

                Indignantly Draco peered at the stone until the etching came clearly into view. The name was his own. 

                The temperature dropped several degrees in that instant and Draco looked over the lettered stone many times hoping that he had been mistaken by some trick in the letters. 

                He was not. This grave was his. 

                At last he felt mortal. He felt human and ached for the humanity that he had, for so long, lived in want of. 

                "Spirit?" Draco asked, now with the respect that he had lacked before. He turned to ask the spirit if these words could be changed. He remembered his classmates dealing in his possessions that he had left behind. The spirit was no longer at his side. He was in fact alone. 

                He was truly alone. He had no friends, no friendships to boast about. No one. These three visiting spirits tonight had been, indeed, better friends to him than those he had had in life. Draco stared into the expansive hole at his feet, pushing himself up off of the cold soil. The scene faded and he in turn felt the burden of unconsciousness as he sank forward into the widening hole of black. 

                With a sudden falling feeling, Draco threw his arms and legs out trying to catch himself before the grave swallowed him completely. 

                To his surprise he was caught in a tangle of bedclothes. He sat upright, looking around at his familiar room, familiar curtains, familiar clock on the bedside table. 

                Draco threw on a robe and stood fast to look out the window. The sun was coming up. It was Christmas day!

                He felt his slippered feet, squashy from a night of walking in the snow. It had not been a dream. He had really been visited and shown the things he had thought took place in a dream. 

                Draco threw open the door and raced past the common room. Out in the hall he rushed in the direction of the Great Hall. They would be there. He knew they would be. 

                Through the large oak doors, Draco pushed past some merry revilers with poppers and festive hats. They shot exasperated looks at him, all of which he ignored. He was of a single mind at the moment. 

                Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were all three sitting at their house table looking over a book that might have been a Christmas present to one of the three. 

                "Granger! Potter! Weasley!" Malfoy said harshly. Hermione spun, astonished at the address, the tone and the breech of enemy etiquette. Ron and Harry looked up, not surprised in the least. 

                "Malfoy!" Ron said in a mock gruff tone that was meant to mimic Draco. "Now that we've all been introduced, Malfoy, what can we do for you?"

                "I know what you were trying to do last night. I just wanted to show you that it didn't work."

                "What didn't work?" Harry asked, perplexed. 

                "You didn't save my soul." Draco demonstrated by sticking a leg out and tripping a lower year Hufflepuff effortlessly. He smiled at the loud clatter of dishware that hit the floor along with the small girl. 

                "Are you feeling all right, Malfoy?" Hermione said favoring him with a look of genuine concern. 

                "Fine," Malfoy answered. "Where is that petition. I'm feeling in rare from this glorious Christams morn!"

                "Glorious Christams morn?" Ron repeated dubiously. "What in the hell has gotten into you? And now you want to sign that stupid petition?"

                Draco grinned at him as Hermione scowled in rebuke. She handed Draco the H.E.L.F. petition. 

                Malfoy made a show of searching his pajamas for a pen and then resorted politely to asking Hermione for one of hers. Fishing in her bag, Hermione actually smiled at Draco. He endeavored to keep a straight face. 

                As soon as it was handed to him, Draco lifted the page, quill in hand, scanning the list of names he suddenly tore the list in half, then in quarters. As Hermione looked on horrified, Harry and Ron stood, hands spread out on the table in front of them. Ron was turning a ghastly shade of red. As Draco made a sort of rudimentary paper doll pattern out of the ruins of the H.E.L.F. petition he felt grateful for the table that Harry and Ron would have to jump before they could actually pummel him. 

                As he sprinkled the remains like snowflakes on the floor at the feet of his enemies and wannabe saviors he felt a triumph and a sort of festive warmth. "Merry Christmas," he said with a cheery smile and exited the hall with more that just the eyes of the offended party on him. 

                Now it could be said that this was a horrible Christmas tale with no presence of morals and no warm Christmas theme. Maybe somewhere in someone else's Christmas Carol there is a Tiny Tim to deliver the final line, "God bless us everyone". Though this is not that tale, our Christmas Carol succeeded in the feat of all feats: Draco Malfoy kept at least some semblance of Christmas in his heart. After all, he did utter the words Merry Christmas in the final scene, didn't he? 


End file.
